


watch, even the stars above, things that seem still are still changing

by atlantisairlock



Category: Circle Mirror Transformation - Baker
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Based Off The Pangdemonium Version, Character Study, Future Fic, Gen, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlantisairlock/pseuds/atlantisairlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lauren Zadick-White has a few things she knows to be true- her mother never sent the cheque, nobody ever sent the cheque, and actually, she's not sure her mother even has a chequebook in her possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch, even the stars above, things that seem still are still changing

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'still' by ben folds.

Lauren Zadick-White has a few things she knows to be true.

\- her mother never sent the cheque. 

-  _nobody_  ever sent the cheque.

\- actually, she's not sure her mother even  _has_  a chequebook in her possession.

\- Marty still let her attend every single class all the way till the end of Week 6.

\- apparently, mothers know  _everything._

"I always knew you were sneaking off to the community centre for acting classes, you know," she says to her daughter the day she's packing up to head off to college. Lauren has her hair up in a loose bun and her pen shoved carelessly through it, neatly printed checklist in one hand and frazzled expression on her face. Her mother drops that bombshell on her while she's bring a stack of freshly tumble-dried laundry into her room, and Lauren looks up, startled. "What?"

Mrs Zadick-White grins and sets Lauren's clothes down on her bed. "I'm your  _mother;_ I know what's going on in your life."

"But you never stopped me..." She almost says  _you never paid for the classes,_ but decides against it. Her mother nods, patting her daughter's arm. "I know how much acting means to you. I'm glad you had the courage to pursue your passion, and look where it's brought you! I'm sure it taught you a great deal, and now you're off to do theatre in college." 

Her mother leaves the room with a teary-eyed smile, off to tumble-dry another batch of clothes, and Lauren sits down on the cold concrete floor, resting her arms on her knees.

That much is true, at least.

 

 

Lauren Zadick-White has a suitcase and two duffels and her mother is insisting she whittle it down to one.

So far she's thrown out her second favourite pair of boots and a pair of bargain leggings and this one twelve-piece set of colourful gel pens that she really likes. Her  _sitti_ has walked past her room twice now, loudly asking why Lauren has to bring all those  _shoes_ and that  _cloak, Lauren, what even is that abomination?_ and _how is that book on hula-hooping techniques even relevant to college?_

The last one makes her go still, and she pointedly nudges the door shut, biting back a burning desire to tell her that the right word is  _hooping._

Here's the thing - she doesn't even leave the state without that book. 

Here's the thing - she wouldn't go anywhere in the _world_ without that book. 

Here's the thing - she misses that acting class with a vengeance.

 

 

They never promised to keep in touch, she knows, but it still ached a little when she stopped seeing those familiar faces near the Brook, or the community centre. It wasn't so bad, at first, because she'd pass the centre on the way to West Side Story rehearsals, and James would wave through the glass of his economics classroom. Or she'd come up the stairs from the theatre cafeteria and pass Theresa rushing off somewhere with haversack over one shoulder and hoops on the other. 

And then one day, it just... stopped. 

Or maybe she just got busier. Maybe she stopped noticing. Maybe other things caught her attention and exchanging quick grins with Schultz became less important than making it through one of her scripts. And that's her fault, but Lauren just can't help  _wishing._

It's not like life is miserable without those weekly sessions, because it's really not. But sometimes, when the homework comes in piles and the rehearsals end at eleven and she's so exhausted she wants to cry, Lauren lies on the ground, closes her eyes, and longs for a game of When I Go To India, for re-enactments, for familiar voices and laughter and smiles. 

Those are the moments she opens the box on the bottom shelf and just sits there, sifting through the items. The small dreamcatcher Schultz gave her. The pamphlet of economics notes James awkwardly handed over on the last day - "it might help in school, or something...". Two of Marty's CDs that she enthused about, still in their cases - she actually took a listen, and it turns out the sounds of nature do provide a conducive environment for studying. The copy  _Hooping 101: Everything You Need To Know About Hooping - And More_ that Theresa pressed into her hands along with a parcel containing some tea lights, smooth, grey pebbles and a handwritten list of instructions on how to go about doing a hot stone massage. Those are the moments in which they bring her the most comfort, and the memories wash over her like an ocean breeze. 

Maybe she'll leave the stones and tea lights behind. But she'll bring the rest. She could never afford to leave them all behind along with everything she's ever known, these souvenirs of her brief love story.

 

 

Lauren Zadick-White is an  _actual certified actress now,_ thank you very much. 

She comes back to Shirley triumphant, degree and all, and takes three days to unpack. There's a ragged bookmark neatly wedged between two pages of the guide to hooping, and the  _Natural Sounds of the Wilderness_ CD has a few scratches here and there, Lauren notices as she carefully places it back in the box. She's so much older now, a little more mature, a little less brash, more patient and thoughtful and confident. She's 26 and the world is so wide and there's so much more to see than this little town, but right now, that's all she wants to do. 

Shirley hasn't changed all that much since she left, but Lauren hasn't expected it to. And she's glad it hasn't. 

 

 

And then, of course, it has.

 

 

She goes to the Brook first, rings the doorbell of one unit, and she's rewarded with a familiar face opening the door. "Schultz!"

 _"Lauren?"_ His grin is blinding as he invites her in. "I haven't seen you in ages! Where've you been?"

"I went to college," Lauren explains, looking around the apartment. It's not that corporate, now; it looks homey. Cozy, and snug, really lived-in. Lauren puts two and two together even before the pretty dark-haired woman walks into the living room. "You found someone!"

"Actually, I found him," she corrects Lauren, setting a plate of brownies down on the coffee table and going over to Schultz's side with a smile. "Hi, are you Lauren? It's so nice to meet you. Schultz's spoken about you before."

Lauren gives Schultz the side-eye -  _really?_ \- and he laughs. He looks a lot happier than before, she notes, and that brings a smile to her face. It's good to see that everything's better for him. It's good to see that what they play-acted in the class a decade ago came true. "Lauren, this is Rachel, my wife. I tell her a lot of stories; those include the ones about our class. Rachel, this is Lauren. Really nice girl. An old friend."

And that warms her heart. It's nice to be described that way. It's nice to know that some bonds haven't faded, even after this long, even when they were forged solely through some activities in a small classroom, meeting once a week. She takes a seat beside the couple, takes a bite of the brownie that Rachel proffers. And of course, she has to ask, right? "So how are our other old friends?"

Schultz's smile fades. No, it doesn't fade, it disappears completely, and something clouds his eyes. He twists his fingers together in a way that reminds Lauren of the old Schultz, and that worries her. "Right, yeah, you were away for pretty long, weren't you?" He says softly, and it's not lost on her how Rachel squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, her brows knitted. 

Suddenly, she realises things have changed. She doesn't want to hear this. She doesn't - 

"Lauren... a couple years ago, Theresa was doing a passion project at the local theatre... and there was a - there was this stunt thing. Not really, but it involved some rigs. And she - something went wrong, she fell. She broke her neck." He pushes on before it can sink in, before she can reel back in shock. "Marty left a long, long time ago - to chase bigger dreams; you know how she was - is. James, too. He just... after Theresa died he just up and left. Nobody knows where they are now. It's just me left here." He closes his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. "I'm sorry, Lauren." 

"Oh," Lauren manages, after a long, horrible silence that presses down on everyone in the room. It's all she can find in the depths of rising despair.

 

 

Lauren Zadick-White is... home.

Or is she?

Everything is still in the same place as she remembers it; the community centre, her high school, the Brook, the community theatre... but it's so much emptier. She tugs her jacket a little tighter around her, and realises it's a lot colder too.

The wind picks up, and she darts into the quiet bar opposite the community theatre. The girl behind the bar's cleaning the counter, and she looks up at Lauren. "We're not open yet."

"I just... it's cold outside." She jerks her thumb in the direction of the door she just came through. And maybe it's how throaty she sounds, or perhaps the girl can see the tears winking in her eyes, because she softens and straightens up. "Like a drink?"

Lauren exhales, tastes ash and iron on her tongue. 

"A beer would be nice." 


End file.
